


how to love a black hole

by majesdane



Category: Motherland: Fort Salem (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Universe, F/F, Original Female Character(s) - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-23
Updated: 2020-07-23
Packaged: 2021-03-04 20:33:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25472446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/majesdane/pseuds/majesdane
Summary: Everything's different. But Scylla's not. She's the same.| Set after 1x10.
Relationships: Raelle Collar/Original Character(s), Raelle Collar/Scylla Ramshorn
Comments: 44
Kudos: 298





	how to love a black hole

i worshiped the myth i made of you, but i'm off my knees / now.  
— traci brimhall, "dear eros"

tell me, do you still dwell on her, / do you see her in the dark?  
— amrita chakraborty, "a kind of killing"

* * *

She doesn't even realize the moment it happens.

When the blade pierces through her chest.

It's a short, sharp pain. Not unlike a punch. Or maybe the feeling of a scourge nicking her during training sessions. 

Raelle feels the give of her own flesh and muscle and when she looks down, she sees the rapier protruding through her chest. _Oh_ , is her only thought, and there's no time at all to process what's happened when it's ripped back and she feels blood, hot and slippery and visceral, pouring down her front.

Her mind clouds over. Her knees give out and she collapses to the ground in a cloud of dust. She presses her hand helplessly to her heart. Blood, sticky and pulsing, floods over her fingers like water over the edge of an overflowing sink. 

Abigail's here, now, gripping her hand. She's talking, but Raelle can barely understand any of it. She can feel herself fading and she thinks, _stupid, Bellweather, stupid_. Abigail always has to play the hero; a random thought bursts to life in Raelle's brain, the idea of Abigail already imagining her name being remembered for her sacrifice.

"I love you, shitbird," Abigail says, soft and strained.

Raelle can't answer. She can barely smile. Her body doesn't feel like her own. Her vision's blurry, the edges of the world growing dark. _I'm dying_ , she thinks, numbly. 

Just like her mother did, alone on a beach, far from the ones she loved.

This is it. Right on schedule, like Raelle wanted from the start. The memory of Scylla teasingly berating her for her terrible plan. That wicked, curving smile. The way it felt pressed against Raelle's mouth. And then later, Scylla chained up captive in Alder's secret prison. Her sobs echoing through the stone hallways as Raelle left and didn't — couldn't — look back.

_They're shipping me off to die._

Well, at least they have that in common now.

It's hard to breathe. It's wet, bubbly.

Keeping her eyes open is an impossible task. Raelle just wants to go to sleep.

But some part of Raelle —the part of her that's still Scylla's, will _always_ be Scylla's, in life and in death — is saying, _don't die, don't die, come back to me,_ over and over again. A song stuck on repeat. A record skipping. Like a mantra. Or a prayer. 

It's a spark of light in the darkness. It's glimmers of sunlight filtering through deep water. Raelle reaches for it — she reaches deep down into the very core of her being and thinks, _I won't, I promise_. She feels herself grasp that tiny bit of warmth and hope and for a heartbeat, everything goes quiet and still.

And then the world explodes.

*

For two days they walk, a trail of mushrooms following them the whole time, a sheen of power radiating off them like a ray of light off a crystal. They're moving towards what Abigail says is east, towards the coast. Raelle's lost all sense of direction. She's hungry and thirsty and all she can concentrate on is keeping in time with Abigail's sluggish but determined strides. 

They keep walking until night falls on the second day and they collapse, exhausted, under a small rock formation.

Not once have they let go of each others' hands; there's an unspoken fear of what might happen if they do. The connection between them feels tenuous. Raelle sleepily wonders out loud if maybe it has something to do with the mycelium wall she touched in the Necro mausoleum.

"Izadora said it was like a mushroom. Or part of it." She frowns, thinking. "I'm not sure."

"I don't understand," Abigail grumbles, turning to face Raelle. "And why were you touching things in there anyway?"

Raelle's too tired to explain. She's dehydrated; her mouth feels stuffed full of sawdust and her head is throbbing with a ceaseless headache. Her entire body aches — a thousand times worse than the worst day of Basic. 

But repeating what Izadora told her jogs another memory loose: the trip to Gallows Hill. The graveyard. Scylla, singing a choral Seed and drawing a death cap from the body of a pigeon.

_Mushrooms represent the underworld._

The way Scylla looked, drenched in moonlight. Beautiful. Fragile. Raelle had never felt such an intense desire to protect someone in her whole life.

Remembering it all now causes a pang in her chest that has nothing to do with her injury. 

(lies, all of it.)

She tries to think of anything else. 

But it's the phantom press of Scylla's lips to hers that she feels as she succumbs to sleep.

*

When they wake the next morning, they're no longer holding hands.

Abigail laughs weakly. "Well, I guess it's safe to say we'll be okay in that regard, at least," she says, the relief in her voice evident.

*

Raelle has no idea how long they've been walking that morning before Abigail pauses, mid-step, and says, "Can you smell that?"

Raelle sniffs the air experimentally then shakes her head.

"It . . . " Abigail tilts her head. "It's the ocean!" Her eyes look bright for the first time in days. "We must be getting close. There's got to be civilians along the coast _somewhere_."

She takes off at a run; Raelle follows with a sigh. She doesn't understand how Abigail still has this much energy. _Maybe Bellweathers really are a special breed,_ she thinks, following Abigail at a distance. Her legs feel like they're made of lead. Her heart thuds in her chest, lungs straining.

At last she catches up to Abigail, who's stopped at the top of a small hill, her hand up to her eyes, shading them from the sun. 

Raelle jogs up behind her.

"Some of us just got stabbed in the heart, you know," she grumbles, hands on her knees, trying to catch her breath.

She can smell the ocean now too, though. The briny mix of salt and decay. 

Abigail's eyes are bright with excitement. " _Look_." 

"What?" Raelle squints towards the horizon.

"Even better than civilians," Abigail says breathlessly, dissolving into relieved laughter. "It's the _Navy_."

*

Anacostia greets them at the airport.

"When I said you could continue to age me prematurely, this wasn't what I had in mind."

It's clear she's trying to be her usual stoic self, but Raelle knows the truth. She can't help but throw her arms around Anacostia, hugging her tightly. Anacostia stiffens at the touch, but military formality be damned — Raelle nearly _died_ , and Anacostia, somehow, has become someone she genuinely cares about. Abigail joins her after a second; they stay like that for a moment, until Anacostia clears her throat and Raelle has to untangle herself from the shared embrace.

"Alder's going to want to talk to you," Anacostia informs them on the drive to Fort Salem.

Raelle and Abigail exchange glances.

*

"Privates Collar and Bellweather." Alder's tone is clipped. "Good to see you two made it."

"Yeah, no thanks to _you_ ," Raelle mutters, and Abigail looks like she's going to die on the spot.

Alder ignores the comment and leans back in her chair, steepling her fingers. "Sit. Now that you're back, we have much to discuss." 

Alder grants Raelle and Abigail positions in War College.

For a price, of course. Alder's much less interested in the fact that Raelle and Abigail nearly died under her command during a haphazard mission than she is in the explosion they created. _Witchbomb_ is the term being bandied about. A ridiculous name for something so potent.

Only those in Alder's inner circle are aware of what happened in the Altai Mountains. 

And that inner circle now includes the Bellweather Unit. In a way.

Tally stands across from Abigail and Raelle in Alder's office, hands folded behind her back. Her maroon uniform is perfectly pressed and creased. But her eyes are dull, expression blank. Raelle can barely stand to look at Tally like this, stripped of her youth and beauty, transformed into another one of Alder's soulless minions.

Alder wants to weaponize this new power, of course.

Now that the Camarilla have proven themselves to be more than just ghosts, now that they're real, formidable threats, they've become the military's new focus. It seems to Raelle that Alder's already eagerly begun to reshape the Spree as possible allies; Raelle could laugh at the irony, if it wasn't so fucking _typical_. 

White hot anger surges in Raelle at the thought. She thinks of her mom, alone and tired, who died fighting for a cause she didn't even believe in. Raelle thinks of Scylla being tortured for days — _weeks_ — all because she's _Spree_. Because the Spree were their _enemies_. Alder was perfectly fine with throwing Scylla away without a second thought.

Now the Spree can be their _allies_? 

Tally doesn't deserve what's happened to her. Neither does Scylla. None of them do. Alder's the one responsible for everything. 

_And?_ a voice inside Raelle asks, suddenly. It's Scylla's voice — or, what Raelle imagines it to be. She can picture Scylla standing next to her, leaning in and putting her mouth to Raelle's ear. Quiet, but challenging. _What are you going to do about it?_

There's no getting Scylla back. But there's at least _one_ thing Raelle can fix.

She grits her teeth and stands up.

"I'll do it," she announces coolly, fixing Alder with a hard stare. "Special training — whatever. If that's what you want from me, I'll do it. _We'll_ do it. But," she adds quickly, before Abigail can jump in, "I want you to restore our Unit."

Alder's expression remains placid, though her jaw tenses.

Her gaze flicks briefly between Raelle and Tally. "You're hardly in a position to bargain, _Private_ Collar. Do you even know what kind of sacrifice Craven made?" she asks Raelle in an even tone. "Many witches would be honored to have this kind of opportunity."

"Then _find_ someone else," Raelle snaps, her patience quickly fraying. She's tired of Alder's bullshit. But more than that, she's not afraid of Alder. She's made herself _invaluable_. Raelle has something Alder wants, and she's not afraid to use it as a bargaining chip. "No one else can do what we do. So those are my conditions."

Alder's mouth is a flat, thin line of disapproval.

Raelle's frustration spikes. "Take it or leave it," she says forcefully, returning Alder's glare.

She strides out of Alder's office without so much as a glance back.

No one follows her.

*

Scylla's been transported to the Army's prison in the Caribbean.

Raelle's shoulders sag as Anacostia delivers the news in solemn tones, the two of them in her office.

A tiny part of her had hoped that Scylla was still on base, so they could see each other one last time. If only so Raelle could find a softer way to say goodbye. When Raelle imagines Scylla sitting all alone, thousands of miles away, in a dirty cell awaiting execution, her throat tightens.

Scylla betrayed her. But Scylla loves her — if Anacostia's to be believed — and she deserved better than their last conversation: Raelle's hands clenched, shaking with rage.

All she could think of in that moment was that she wanted to _hurt_ Scylla, to cut her so deep that the wound would never heal — 

— and yet, lying in the sand, bloody and barely breathing, the world around her growing dim, Scylla was the only thing Raelle reached for. 

There's something in Anacostia's expression. It feels distinctly like when Raelle confronted her about Scylla's disappearance after the Bellweather wedding. It's as if Anacostia's holding herself back from saying more. 

Or maybe it's just Raelle's imagination; her mind desperately grasping for some kind of comfort. Something to hold on to.

Scylla's gone. Gone forever, and the last memory Raelle has of her is anguished cries echoing off the cold stone walls. 

It can't be real.

*

Outside, Raelle throws up. 

She wipes her mouth on the back of her shaking hand, throat burning.

Tears come next, hard and fast. She sinks to the grass, head in her hands.

She doesn't care who sees her.

*

Regular students in War College get upgraded to single dorm rooms; Raelle and Abigail are housed together in a penthouse on the upper floor of Eurydice Dorm. It's usually reserved for distinguished upper class officers, but they have the lucky distinction of being Alder's new pet project. 

"Alder's agreed to your request about Tally," Abigail says excitedly, a few days later. She grabs Raelle by the shoulders and pulls Raelle in for an uncharacteristic hug. "She's got Anacostia looking for a replacement. Can you believe it? We're getting her _back_ , Rae."

Raelle smiles, relieved. As much as Abigail and her have become sisters, it doesn't feel the same to be together without Tally. Their Unit's finally going to be whole again. And yet, Raelle can't deny the twinge of guilt she feels, knowing that some poor girl is going to have to take Tally's place.

And it'll be Raelle's fault. 

_That's not true. You're just trying to save your friend. Because that's who you are. There's no other choice._

Raelle hates how easily she can imagine Scylla saying just that.

She exists in Raelle's mind now only to offer platitudes, apparently.

*

War College is boring.

At least in Basic, as exhausting and demoralizing as it could be, they were constantly kept busy. There wasn't time to think about just how miserable you were. Here, the pace is slower, more focused on military tactics and theory and honing their particular fields of specialization, which sometimes means more classwork than actual field training. Sitting inside a stuffy lecture hall, drowsily scribbling in her notebook, Raelle _yearns_ to be back outside running laps around the Fort Salem campus. 

It feels like the re-emergence of the Camarilla should've turned the world of Fort Salem on its axis. But here Raelle is, nearing the end of her second week in class, and dutifully trying not to fall asleep as the instructor drones on about the specifics of some battle from a hundred years ago that Raelle's never even heard of — or cares about. Abigail insists this sort of thing is important, but that's something a Bellweather _would_ say. It's not like Fixers are ever the ones calling the shots.

Raelle has to remind herself that she's only one of a handful of people on base who even know about the Camarilla's existence. Everyone else is blissfully ignorant; Alder's keeping the news quiet for now, in order to plan the Army's next steps. 

Meanwhile, Alder's been running Raelle and Abigail ragged trying to unsuccessfully trigger the witchbomb a second time. Raelle only barely understands Izadora's contemplative droning about what the mycelium could have _potentially_ done, and why, but Raelle's fairly certain that there's nothing strong enough to get the mycelium to kick into action again, outside of nearly being killed. Again.

Which is not a course of action Alder's suggested.

Yet.

Raelle's got the back row of seats in the lecture room almost entirely to herself. Thanks to last year's draft size, there's plenty of open seats. Raelle prefers to sit by herself. There's only a few girls here she recognizes from Basic; all the others must have been in different platoons. Raelle's not particularly interested in making friends. 

The only other girl in her row is a strawberry blonde two seats over. Pretty. And _tall_ — she's got her legs stretched out, feet propped up on the empty seat in front of her. She keeps fidgeting with her pen — tapping it on the desk, twirling it between her fingers. It's annoying. But what's even more annoying is how she's spent the whole class sneaking glances at Raelle.

Raelle's been pretending not to notice.

From the very start she's been used to having people stare at her for all kinds of things — her use of non-canon Work, her reckless Salva trip. Or even simply because she was part of the Bellweather Unit, full-stop. Since her and Abigail's miraculous return from China, however, it's only gotten worse.

Today, though, her patience is wearing thin.

"Do you have a problem?" she leans over and snaps in a low voice.

The girl restrains a laugh. "Sorry," she says quietly, with a smile. "It's just — you're really cute."

Oh. Raelle wasn't expecting _that_. She feels the tips of her ears grow hot and looks away quickly, suddenly self-conscious, staring pointedly at her half-hearted notes. She's not usually so easily flustered, but it's been a while since anyone's flirted with her. Not since —

When she looks back up again, the girl's attention is back on the instructor, but she's still got that same lopsided grin.

After class, as Raelle's packing up her things, the girl approaches and offers her hand. "Maybe I should properly introduce myself?"

*

Photia is everything that Scylla is not.

The fact that they're so physically different is one thing, but it's more than that, too. Photia is outgoing and earnest, and energetic enough to give Tally a run for her money. There's an ease to being around Photia that's unexpected, but welcome. It feels _normal_ , having someone to talk to who isn't caught up in all the drama behind the scenes at Fort Salem. At least for a little while, Raelle can forget everything else and just pretend to be any other girl on base.

They're not a couple; they haven't even kissed.

It's obvious Photia wants them to take that next step. A part of Raelle wants it, too.

Every time she lets herself consider it, though, a horrible guilty feeling settles in her stomach like thick tar. It's been just under a month since she and Abigail got back to base. 

Raelle's been trying very hard not to think of Scylla, but it's an impossible task. There's memories of her everywhere. The view of Scylla's old dorm room window from the main road. The woods where they did Salva together. Their tree. All the places where they laughed and held hands and kissed and murmured sweet words, promises of things to come.

Sometimes Raelle's struck with a sadness so profound that it _hurts_ , like being stabbed clean through all over again, and she has the urge to just lie down on the ground and cry. 

But she can't do that. 

So instead she does the only thing she's good at: she pretends not to care at all.

"You've been spending an awful lot of time with that girl from your Fixer class," Abigail comments pointedly one day. They're on their way back from their daily training session with Alder. "What's her name again?" She's using an airy tone that implies she remembers, but wants to make Raelle say it. 

"Photia Aphelion." Raelle resists the urge to tack on a snarky remark that Abigail wouldn't know her, seeing as Photia's not a High Atlantic. But she feels a strange desire to impress Abigail, so she adds, "Her Unit ranked the highest in their platoon." 

Abigail raises an eyebrow. "Oh? Then you should have no problem being at the top of your specialty in War College. Since you're so _close_."

There's a bite to her words. 

"Yeah, something like that," Raelle says shortly.

She knows where this is going, and she isn't in the mood for one of Abigail's lectures. Before, Raelle would have never imagined Abigail taking issue with her spending time with someone who wasn't Scylla. Abigail's favorite descriptor for Scylla had always been the word _distraction_ — it wasn't as if Abigail hadn't made her disapproval of Scylla blatant from the start. 

Between Anacostia and Abigail, Raelle isn't sure who's become more irritating on the topic of Scylla. 

(she wishes they would make up their minds.)

"What's going on with you and her, Raelle?" Abigail presses. She sounds angry. Disappointed, almost. "Is this you pretending to move on? Because it's a stupid way to go about it."

Raelle thinks Abigail's probably been stewing over this all morning. She snorts. "Last time I checked, it's none of your business, Bellweather."

She strides ahead purposefully so that Abigail has to jog to keep up.

" _Listen_ ," Abigail says, grabbing Raelle's arm and forcing her to stop. "Like it or not, we're still a Unit, which means it _is_ my business." Her expression softens and she continues in a quiet voice, "I Linked with you, remember? I know you. In the Altai Mountains — she's the reason you came back, isn't she?"

Raelle feels the hot pricking of tears in her eyes. She blinks them back, yanking her arm free from Abigail's grasp. "Shut _up_ , Abigail."

They don't speak for the rest of the day.

*

After much persuasion, Photia convinces Raelle to join her for her usual early morning runs around base. 

Raelle isn't particularly interested in getting up early, but Photia's good company, and it helps Raelle keep the Fixers off her back. They're always lecturing her about how she needs to build her strength and stamina back up again after her injury. As if being stabbed clean through the heart was on par with breaking her leg. 

This morning they've stopped to rest by the lake, the air thick with humidity. Raelle wipes at her face with her shirt, breathing hard. After a moment, they start walking along the water's edge, headed back in the direction of the main buildings. 

"So," Photia begins lightly. "You dated someone earlier this year, right?"

Raelle makes a small non-committal sound. "It was a long time ago," she mutters. She kicks at a small rock by the edge of the lake, watches it go flying and land in the water with a slight _plop_. 

"Mm." A beat. "What happened?"

Raelle doesn't answer. She doesn't want to talk about Scylla. Especially not with Photia. 

Not now.

Not ever. 

Besides, what can she say? There's only the unbearable truth: that their entire relationship was based on a lie; that Scylla used her; that Scylla's Spree, and a murderer. That even now, late at night, sometimes Raelle wakes to feel the phantom sensation of an _S_ being traced on her palm. That when Raelle's all alone in the darkness, she presses her hand to her mouth, eyes stinging with tears.

Photia must sense Raelle's discomfort, because after a moment she adds, "You don't need to talk about it if you don't want to. If it's a sensitive subject — "

"It's alright. I just — maybe some other time?" 

They walk in silence after that. Raelle keeps her head down, her gaze averted. She feels guilty for not opening up to Photia, but there's so much she can't talk about. And even if she could, she's not even sure if she would know how.

"Look," Photia says, pausing. A pair of swans glide together through the lilypads dotting the surface of the water. She turns and grins at Raelle. "Beautiful, right?"

Something tightens in Raelle.

She thinks of lying on the grass with Scylla, looking at the stars. _My parents taught me the constellations,_ Scylla had said, pointing them out. _That's Cygnus; the swan. There's different Greek myths about it, but they both have to do with love. Swans are a symbol of true love, you know. They mate for life._

Scylla smiling, catching Raelle's hand in her own, squeezing tight.

Now, Raelle looks at Photia. 

Here, in the early mid-morning sunlight, with the light reflecting off the water just _so_ , casting a bright golden glow over everything, she looks lovelier than ever.

And then, it happens, finally — Photia leans in.

Raelle closes her eyes and lets herself be kissed.

It's not so bad.

It's nice, even. 

(but it's not the same.)

It's not what she _wants_ — not what she's _always_ wanted, even in anger. Even in hate.

But what she wants doesn't exist anymore.

Something so out of reach she can't grasp it, even if she tries with all her might.

A dream. A memory.

What she wants is a pretty girl with cobalt eyes and a faraway expression. A girl with a sly grin and charming words. A girl who presses her mouth to Raelle's ear and whispers she'll love her no matter what. A girl who chooses Raelle, even in the face of her own demise. A girl who makes Raelle feel so much that she can hardly stand it, bursting at the seams. 

That girl is gone, though. Gone, and never coming back. If she ever even really existed in the first place.

"I hope that was okay," Photia says quietly, when she pulls away. She takes a step back, her hands lingering on Raelle's shoulders. "I . . . really like you, Raelle."

(scylla's nervous smile, her rushed speech.)

Photia's eyes search Raelle's face, waiting expectantly.

There are so many things Raelle wishes she could say; she's never been good with words. Even less so, now that her heart's a raw, pulpy mess of feelings. She isn't even sure where she'd start. So instead she does the only thing that _doesn't_ require thinking: she leans up and kisses Photia again.

*

Abigail and Tally — recently un-Biddied — exchange a look when Raelle and Photia walk in for breakfast later, hand-in-hand. Raelle sighs as she slides into a seat at their table, murmuring a goodbye to Photia, who leaves to go sit with her old Unit. 

"Don't start."

Tally raises an eyebrow. "Apparently a lot changed while I wasn't around," she remarks lightly.

Abigail just shakes her head, fixing Raelle with a hard stare. "I hope you know what you're doing."

*

Three days later, Anacostia pulls Raelle aside outside of Eurydice with a clipped, "Collar, a word," and instructs Raelle to meet her that afternoon before dinner.

"Scylla isn't in the Caribbean."

It's the first thing out of Anacostia's mouth when Raelle sits down on the grass next to her. They're underneath _that_ tree, the same place where Raelle confessed to Anacostia that she still loved Scylla. It made her feel vulnerable, saying it out loud, but Anacostia hadn't judged or admonished her for that, only offered gentle comfort. 

( _she loves you._ )

It hurts to be here again, but it's the most secluded spot on base.

Raelle's spent the last two hours puzzling over what exactly it is that requires such subterfuge. Now, gaping at Anacostia, she understands.

Or, rather, she doesn't understand at all.

"She's in a Spree safe house the next town over." Anacostia's expression is frustratingly unreadable.

Raelle can only stare. " _How_?"

*

It was Anacostia's idea to use Scylla as a means to broker peace with the Spree.

She explains the whole plan to Raelle, who paces about anxiously, fidgeting with her mother's ring as she tries to make sense of the whole thing. Anacostia and Scylla have been working together since Alder returned from the Altai Mountains with news that the Camarilla were indeed active and thriving. The two of them have spent the past month attempting to unite the scattered Spree cells. 

It's all in preparation for Alder to extend the offer of a temporary truce. The Spree are better equipped for negotiations if they present themselves as a united front.

"I can't believe you kept this from me!" 

Raelle's hot with anger. She can feel a headache coming on, disoriented from the flood of information. She isn't sure how to react or what to even think. Her mind buzzes with a million questions. 

"This whole time . . ." She's in disbelief. "You watched me suffer and you said nothing. _Again!_ "

Anacostia doesn't flinch at the accusation. "And I'm sorry for that. But I assure you, it was for your own safety. There's more to the story you don't know — and that I _can't_ tell you right now."

"Convenient."

"Collar." Anacostia's tone is understanding, but firm. "You're upset, and rightfully so. But what's happening right now is _complicated_. I couldn't just throw you into the middle of it as soon as you got back from China."

"And Scylla?" Raelle sighs, rubbing at her temples. "What _is_ it about her? You hated her the whole time we were together. You used me _against_ her." Her voice trembles at the memory of Scylla's pained face, the sting of the cold concrete floor. "What changed? Why do you suddenly care so much about her?"

Anacostia's expression is surprisingly soft. "She's not all bad. Isn't that what you told me?"

The scar on Raelle's heart seems to throb with a tiny pang.

She feels like crying. She sniffs and swipes at her eyes, turning away.

*

When they get back to Eurydice a little while later, Anacostia reaches forward and gives Raelle's shoulder a little squeeze. "Until I say otherwise, this stays between us. Understood?"

Raelle nods.

She hates the idea of keeping secrets from Tally and Abigail after everything they've been through, but she isn't ready to have a conversation about Scylla with them either. 

"Wait," Raelle says, as Anacostia turns to leave. "When you see Scylla again . . ."

_Tell her I'm glad she's alive._

_Tell her I miss her._

_Tell her —_

She falters; the words die on her tongue.

*

"How was your meeting with Quartermaine?" Photia asks, when Raelle goes to her room after dinner. 

"Fine. Uneventful." Raelle shrugs, not looking at Photia. "She just wanted to know how War College was going." 

Maybe she should feel guilty for lying.

But she doesn't.

She doesn't feel anything at all.

The news has left her numb. Everything's so jumbled up inside her, and there's no one she can talk to about it. And even if she _could_ , she's not sure she would. Her feelings for Scylla are too much. She doesn't know if she'll ever be able to find the words to give them shape.

"I missed you," Photia says playfully, tugging Raelle in by her uniform jacket.

She pushes Raelle to the bed with a kiss, brushing the hair out of her eyes and moving her mouth up to press kisses against her cheeks, nose, forehead. Raelle's hands settle on the small of Photia's back, warmed by the feeling of lips ghosting along her skin and the press of Photia's body against hers.

But with her eyes closed, her mind drifts. When Photia slips away and pulls Raelle on top of her, Raelle remembers the way Scylla let herself be pressed to the mattress, the way her eyes fluttered closed when Raelle's fingers traced along the inch of bare skin on her exposed midriff just below the edge of her shirt. Remembers the way Scylla giggled, then sighed, arching. The smell of her, like soap and honeysuckle. The way she said Raelle's name so affectionately, the quiet moans, the taste of her. 

Raelle forces those feelings back down, forces the images back down, kissing Photia just a bit harder, with just a bit more desperation.

Photia grips Raelle's shoulders, blunted nails digging in.

(it's all wrong.)

*

Following Anacostia off-base is surely a rash idea, but that's apparently Raelle's specialty these days.

It's been approximately seventy-two hours since their conversation about Scylla, and Raelle hasn't been able to think of anything else since. She's been avoiding Photia as much as possible, pretending to be swamped with Alder's training. Lying has become attractive; it's kinder than the truth.

What the truth is, exactly, Raelle isn't entirely certain herself.

She feels a stab of self-loathing and wonders when she got this pathetic. Wonders when everything turned into such a mess. Everything's all tangled up and she doesn't know how to pick it all apart and set things right again. 

Presently, she's standing on the opposite side of the street debating whether or not to barge into a Spree safe house. She's _fairly_ certain she wouldn't get hurt — or at least not too badly — given Anacostia is currently inside.

She's seriously considering testing that theory when the door swings open and a figure steps out. It's not Anacostia, nor is it the guard that was sitting on the porch a minute ago.

Scylla.

She looks so different: dressed in plain civilian clothes, her hair pulled back into a ponytail, but she's as beautiful as always. She bounds down the front steps with that old cocksure swagger, one hand in her pocket. It's strange seeing her like this, so casual and carefree. 

It's the Scylla from the Storm Range; it's meeting Scylla for the first time all over again.

Raelle wants to cry out to her, wants to cross the street to meet Scylla at the gate. But she can't get her mouth to work properly, and her feet are rooted to the spot. She can only stare as Scylla skirts around the half-open gate and steps out into the sunlight. 

And then Scylla looks over, and their eyes meet.

Scylla stares in disbelief. And Raelle stares right back.

"Raelle," Scylla calls, softly.

It's just one word. Only her name. But it makes Raelle's throat close up.

She turns and runs.

*

Raelle can't sleep. 

She can't stop thinking about Scylla. She keeps replaying the moment their eyes locked. The way Scylla stopped, mid-step. How her expression shifted; her smile slipping into the nervous, vulnerable look from their last confrontation. The way Scylla said her name — half surprised, half reverent. 

Raelle ran and ran until her lungs felt like they were about to burst into flames. She collapsed against the wall of a building along a narrow side-street, mind racing. Every single feeling she'd tried so hard to tamp down rushing back, like water breaking over a dam. Anger, confusion, regret, grief. And _love_ , too. 

Lying in bed now, she closes her eyes and reaches for that last feeling. 

What she misses are the tiny moments, the ones that blur together until they're just a _moment_ , singular.

Scylla in the morning light framed by the sun, her hair falling around her face in gentle waves. In the shower, water cascading all around them, the tiny rivulets running down Scylla's arms, between her breasts; Raelle bending her head and kissing every freckle until the water turns cool. A shared smile across a room. Scylla, coming up behind her, covering Raelle's eyes with her hands, whispering _guess who_ , her breath warm and sugary. The way she laughs in delight as Raelle spins and sweeps her into a kiss.

Raelle can imagine a thousand lifetimes of turning around to see Scylla, eyes bowerbird blue, her smile as easy as falling.

 _There's no way out_ , is what Raelle said, that first evening in Scylla's room.

It'd been true then — that feeling of drowning, the knowledge that escape could only come in the form of a body bag. But then Scylla had smiled at her and kissed her and suddenly the world was a little brighter.

It felt like being able to breathe again, breaking through to the surface. Scylla understood how Raelle felt; she understood everything, and maybe that was the whole point, why and how it all got so fucked up.

Scylla understood, and Raelle wanted — just for a second — to believe that things could be okay. For a while it seemed true. That maybe impossible things could be made possible through the simple acting of wanting them so much.

(no matter what happens — )

Raelle can already picture the lecture Anacostia's going to give her, but she can't keep everything to herself. It's too much.

The next morning, over breakfast, she confesses everything to Tally and Abigail. 

Abigail leans against the doorway, arms crossed, looking irritatingly smug. As if she knew it all along. 

"So, what are you going to do now?"

*

It's been three days, five hours, and approximately twenty-eight minutes.

Give or take.

Not that Raelle's been counting.

She keeps worrying the palm of her left hand with her right thumb. A habit that started after the Bellweather wedding disaster that she's caught herself doing more and more these days. She keeps waiting for the _S_ to appear. She tries to imagine Scylla sitting alone in that house, finger hovering over her own palm, wondering if she _should_. 

"You're always doing that," Photia comments casually one day, nodding at Raelle's hands. She leans back in her desk chair, pen to her mouth. "Nervous tic?"

Raelle feels caught out, the tips of her ears growing hot. She shoves her hands into her pockets. "Yeah. Something like that."

A heavy silence descends upon the room. 

It used to come so easily, pretending she was fine. But now there's a tension between them, and Raelle knows it's entirely her fault. It's not like she can _explain_ what's going on with her though — not wholly, anyway. 

"Hey," Photia murmurs, suddenly standing and pulling Raelle towards her suggestively. "C'mere."

She kisses Raelle, long and slow, steering them towards the bed.

Raelle leans back on the pillows as Photia straddles her waist, trailing kisses along the curve of Raelle's jaw, right up to her ear. She nips at Raelle's earlobe. Her breath is warm and damp against Raelle's skin as her fingers slide to Raelle's belt, the metal clinking as she undoes it with one single motion. Her fingers tug at the button on Raelle's trousers, easing it open. Then —

"I can't," Raelle whispers shakily.

The words are out before she can stop herself. 

Photia pulls back, brows knitted in concern and confusion. "Raelle?"

Raelle gently takes Photia's hands in her own, moving them from her lap. "I can't do this," she says quietly. 

"Oh," Photia says quietly, her voice on the verge of tears, yet sounding resigned. Her thin smile wobbles uneasily. She scrambles awkwardly off Raelle.

Raelle climbs off the bed, leaning awkwardly against Photia's desk. She's never been good at this kind of thing. She had her fair share of breakups growing up in the Cession, but all that practice hasn't helped a bit. She's terrible with words — and even more so when she has to find the right soothing, placating things to say. 

She doesn't mind if Photia is angry at her; Raelle knows she deserves it.

But Photia just _looks_ at her from the bed — sad, but not angry. 

"It's her, isn't it?" Photia asks quietly, passively. "You're still in love with her."

Raelle wishes she could lie. There's nothing she wants more. Photia is pretty and kind and if Raelle were any other girl, this would be a different story. She knows that they could be happy together. Things could be easy; normal; nothing but blue skies every day. 

But Photia will never be Scylla. She will only ever be herself, and that girl deserves someone better than Raelle.

Photia's sad expression twists into something colder. Now she _is_ angry. " _You_ were the one who broke things off. Didn't you tell me that?" Her laugh is bitter. "And yet, even now, she's all you can think about."

Raelle looks down at her feet.

How can she explain, the way Scylla makes her feel? 

"I'm sorry," she says. She can't meet Photia's eyes.

She's such a coward.

*

Raelle didn't expect to find herself standing outside the Spree safe house in Lynn so soon, but here she is again. The only difference now is that she's here on Anacostia's invitation.

"There's more you need to know, Collar," she'd said as she led Raelle to the garage, gesturing towards one of the Army's sleek, unmarked SUVs.

Raelle wishes that Abigail and Tally could have come with her. Since she's already told them what's going on with Scylla and Alder and the Spree, it only seems fair. But Anacostia insists that this is a trip for Raelle's benefit only. 

"The way over is under," Anacostia says to the man sitting on the front porch.

Raelle starts. 

"The way out is in," she murmurs, at the same time as the man recites the line. 

He stares at her curiously. Anacostia raises an eyebrow. Raelle ducks her head, her face hot. She isn't about to explain that she apparently learned the Spree's secret passphrase with her hand down Scylla's pants two days into Basic training. She hurriedly follows Anacostia into the house, and the screen door bangs shut behind them.

Anacostia gestures to the front hall. "Wait here a minute."

Raelle's standing, rocking impatiently on her heels, when Scylla comes down the stairs.

"Hi, Raelle," she says conversationally, as if this isn't the first time they've seen each other — accidental meeting notwithstanding — in over a month. "I didn't realize you were here already." She licks her lips, like she wants to say more. Her eyes dart towards the direction of the room Anacostia went into. "There's something I need to tell you — "

They're interrupted by the sound of footsteps, someone saying Raelle's name.

Raelle turns to look.

*

Time stops.

Raelle's heart leaps to her throat. Her vision blurs. She stares and stares.

It can't be real. In a second she'll start awake and realize it was all a dream.

Her voice comes out as a whisper:

"Mom?"

*

Raelle paces in one of the empty bedrooms upstairs, blazing with white hot anger, while Scylla hovers hesitantly in the doorway. 

"Did you know?" Raelle demands. She can't keep her voice down. 

Scylla shakes her head. "I swear I didn't. I only found out when I came here after Anacostia helped me escape. And by then it was too late. I promise; I wouldn't lie to you. Not ever again."

There's quiet desperation in her voice, just like in the dungeon when she pleaded with Raelle to believe her. And exactly like then, Raelle finds herself turning away, unable to look at her. She squeezes her hands into fists. Hot tears slide down her cheeks. 

"Raelle, if I'd known, I would have _never_ kept it from you. I would never do anything to hurt you."

( _please believe me._ )

"But you and Anacostia kept this from me," Raelle says through gritted teeth. She whirls around to face Scylla. "And don't you dare say it was for my own good."

"Willa asked us not to tell you. She wanted to wait until the time was right."

"When would there _ever_ be a right time?" Raelle laughs bitterly, throwing her hands up, exasperated. "God, can you even _begin_ to imagine what I feel right now? What if it was _your_ parents?"

Scylla flinches, and Raelle feels a sting of regret. She sighs, running a hand through her hair. "Listen, I — I just need time to think."

"Of course."

Raelle watches her leave. When the door clicks shut, she sinks onto the bed with a heavy sigh, suddenly exhausted. She squeezes her eyes shut, covering her face with her hands. Everything's so fucked up. This is the second time she's been blindsided in as many weeks. She can feel herself unraveling, like a frayed piece of cloth. 

The interaction plays back in her mind: her mother, standing in the living room, a plaintive expression on her face. "Sweetheart," she'd said, stepping forward and resting a hand lightly on Raelle's shoulder. "I've missed you so much."

Raelle had trembled with anger and relief, her arms stiff at her sides. "All this time," she whispered, blinking back the rush of tears. "You've been alive. You _left_ us. You let us mourn you. How — how could you do that?"

"It's a long story," her mother started, tone light, cautious. "I can explain —"

But Raelle hadn't waited long enough to hear anything else. She bolted up the stairs, pushing past Scylla, ducking into the first empty room she found and slammed the door so hard the hinges rattled.

She won't listen to excuses. Not anymore. Nothing will ever make this okay. It's the worst kind of betrayal; more awful than anything Scylla's ever done. She wants to smash everything to bits.

And, too, Raelle wants nothing more than to hold her mom again and never let go. She wants to fall asleep to the feeling of her mother stroking her hair and singing old Cession lullabies, like she used to when Raelle was a kid. 

Raelle presses her face to the pillow and screams.

*

When she eventually makes her way downstairs again, the safe house is empty, save for Scylla, who's in the kitchen making a grilled cheese sandwich. 

"Hungry?" she asks, as Raelle pads into the room, her stomach growling as if on cue. "Here — I'll make you one too."

There's something charmingly domestic about watching Scylla flit about the kitchen. Raelle's struck with a sudden thought of them together like this, in another house, far away from everyone and everything. Affection stirs in her at that, and she has to tamp it down. It's always so easy to get swept up in the moment when she's with Scylla; even now, when they're standing in a Spree safe house. The very same safe house that's run by Raelle's mother.

As Scylla hands Raelle a plate, she explains that Anacostia and Willa have gone out to discuss Alder's plans for next week's negotiation meeting. She doesn't mention where the other Spree members went, and Raelle doesn't bother to ask. She's just grateful for the quiet, even if it _does_ mean having to endure the prickly tension that fills the kitchen while they eat in silence.

"I can't stand this," Scylla sighs at last, moving to set her plate in the sink. She leans against the kitchen counter. "Your silent fuming. I'd rather have you be yelling at me again. At least then I'd know where we stand."

And suddenly, Raelle's angry all over again; she can't help herself, she's all teeth and sharp edges. "What do you _want_ me to say? I think we've pretty much covered it all, don't you agree?" She pushes her plate away, appetite gone now. "You're Spree. And working for my mom, apparently."

"Raelle — " 

"You've _killed_ people, Scyl."

There it is: the one cold truth Raelle's tried the hardest to ignore. The accusation that's sat on the tip of her tongue from the minute she realized exactly who Scylla was all along. The words leave a sour taste in her mouth, like bile. 

But Scylla doesn't waver. She straightens, crossing her arms.

"I promised there would be no more lies between us. So I'll tell you now, whether you want to hear it or not — yes, I've done terrible things." Her tone is cool. She fixes Raelle with a level stare. "Should I apologize for everything? I won't. We're both soldiers, Raelle. The only difference is what we fight for." 

"It's _not_ the same."

"Isn't it?" Scylla counters. "The Army had _you_ kill civilians. Oh, Anacostia told me all about that," she continues fluidly, off Raelle's flustered look. "They gave an order, and you complied. No different than anything I've done." And then, frowning, as if testing the weight of it: "And just like me, you killed a witch, too."

Raelle remembers the smooth grip of the scourge in her hand, her vision blurred by tears, the deep gold and red hues of the setting sun making the tall grass around her look ablaze. The lifeless corpse of the Baylord Spree agent at her feet. The pounding of blood in her ears. Her ragged breathing, her throat tight. 

"I told you the Army killed my parents," Scylla says quietly. "I tried to honor them."

Raelle looks down at her hands, gritting her teeth.

She hates how deeply Scylla's words resonate.

How many times had she read and re-read the letters her mother sent her, resenting the military and Sarah Alder with every fiber of her being? How often had she heard of Spree attacks and found herself feeling a small spark of understanding? She knew civilians weren't all bad, of course. Her father was a shining example of that. But she'd felt that small sense of camaraderie with the Spree all the same. She'd wanted justice for her mom. She wanted to tear the whole system apart, burn it right down to the ground.

She sees herself now, with startling clarity, reflected in Scylla. The person she might have become.

Oh.

*

A little while later, they stand together under the cover of the back porch roof, taking in the sudden rainstorm, their tempers cooling with the summer air. 

"I still love you, Raelle," Scylla says, so suddenly it's startling. "It was real. I meant every word."

Raelle bites her lip. Stares straight ahead. She's afraid of what might happen if she were to meet Scylla's gaze right now.

She's afraid of what she might let herself do.

*

Willa Collar sits across from Raelle, looking exactly the same as she did when she left for Greenville over a year ago.

The person Raelle's spent all this time grieving. The reason she'd answered the Call, fully intending to throw herself headlong into an early death straight out of Basic. The one person Raelle had always trusted the most.

She's sitting across from Raelle looking very much _alive_ , dressed in civilian clothes, stirring two sugars into a steaming cup of coffee.

It's the first time they've had a moment alone in the week since her mom revealed herself at the Spree safe house. Raelle's been pointedly chilly every time they've interacted, despite Anacostia's not so subtle attempts to try and convince Raelle to hear her mother out. 

Deep down a part of Raelle knows, logically, that her mother wouldn't have gone through the whole charade of _faking her own death_ if there wasn't a good reason. But that doesn't make Raelle feel any better. All she can think about are the countless nights she cried herself to sleep. Or how she used to press her face to her mom's dress blues, hanging neatly pressed in her parent's bedroom closet, and inhale the faint scent of her mother's perfume. All the times she re-read her mother's letters, tracing the sigil over and over, just to have her mom close for a few moments. Even if it was nothing but a memory.

How can she reconcile that now with her mom here in front of her, real and present? And not just _alive_ , but the leader of a Spree cell. The one who's been pulling Scylla's strings behind the scenes all this time.

Scylla —

"You sent Scylla to me," Raelle growls in a low voice. "Did you _tell_ her to — ?" She can't even give voice to the thought. She feels nauseous. 

"No, of course not," Willa says, with a wry smile, taking a sip of coffee. "She was only supposed to befriend you, that's all. Win your trust. Everything else, well . . . " Her mom chuckles, trailing off. "I certainly didn't expect all of _that_."

"The Bellweather wedding. She was supposed to bring me to you, wasn't she?"

Her mother nods. "Those were her orders. As you know well, she didn't follow them. I guess it couldn't have been helped, though." Willa sighs, settling back in her chair with a shrug. "I wasn't exactly forthcoming with my reasons for wanting you extracted. And by that time she'd become rather . . . _attached_. I'm sure she thought she was protecting you."

Raelle chews on her bottom lip, turning everything over in her mind. At least now she knows for certain that Scylla was telling the truth about one thing.

It's cold comfort.

"Maybe Scylla had the right idea," Raelle snaps petulantly.

She's annoyed at how blasé her mom is acting, as if this is all entirely normal. As if Raelle's life hasn't been completely upended yet _again_. And it's been entirely her mom's fault, right from the start. 

Raelle leans on the table, forcing herself to keep her voice level. "Did you think you'd just show up and everything would be fine? That I'd happily join your stupid little Spree group?" She sits back, folding her arms. "I'm sorry to disappoint you."

Willa sighs again, cupping her hands around her mug. "You're right. I should have found a better way to go about things. But there was so much going on — it was too dangerous. And look: here you are, safe and sound. And stronger than before."

Raelle scoffs, rolling her eyes. _That's only thanks to Fort Salem and their weird mushroom wall_ , she wants to retort. _You had nothing to do with that._

"I want to try and make it up to you," Willa says plainly. "I'll tell you everything."

The look in her mom's eyes makes Raelle think of all the times she broke the news that she was leaving on deployment again. Regret. Sadness.

Something in her _gives_. Despite herself, despite the flames of anger still licking stubborning at her insides, she wants to hear her mother out.

Even if she's not quite sure if her mom deserves it. 

Anacostia's chiding voice rings out in her mind: _Pretend you're not yourself for one minute and listen._

Raelle's made a lot of mistakes. Especially in regards to Scylla.

But if there's one thing all of that has taught her, it's that maybe she should at least try to give the people she cares about a chance to explain themselves.

"Alright," Raelle exhales, running a hand through her hair. "I'm here. So tell me."

*

Abigail and Tally, to their credit, don't gawk _too_ much when Raelle introduces them to her mom a couple days later.

Scylla perches on the arm of a chair, watching the whole awkward scene play out with a hint of a smile on her lips. Raelle can't help but think that Scylla must enjoy seeing Abigail be rendered speechless; there _is_ a certain shade of amusement in Abigail attempting to keep up the image of a prim and polished High Atlantic while shaking hands with Raelle's not dead, Spree leader mother.

"That went better than expected," Scylla says, humming once and leaning on the railing on the front porch.

Raelle grins. "I thought Abigail was going to have an aneurysm." 

"Mm." Scylla grins back and cocks her head, putting on a mock thoughtful expression. " _I_ was half expecting her to knock me out when she saw me."

Raelle laughs. 

There's still a tension between them, but every so often they find themselves slipping back into the casual ease that they used to share. Sometimes Raelle catches Scylla looking at her, and she's filled with the desire to bridge the gap between them. Sweep Scylla up into a kiss. 

She knows that Scylla still loves her; the way she stares is soft, wistful.

What she _doesn't_ know is if Scylla is aware that the feeling is mutual.

And — even if she hates herself for thinking it — she's not entirely certain if she _should_ want to rekindle their relationship. It's all so complicated. There's so much hurt between them; some things that can never be repaired. 

But every time Scylla smiles at her, Raelle's heart flutters in her chest. All her fears seem to float away. She wants to tell Scylla that she forgives her, that she misses her so much it keeps her up at night, that there's no one else she'll ever love, that she wants it to be them together, every day, no matter what.

She would say it all, if only she could bring herself to.

*

Raelle's bleeding.

"Camarilla," Raelle manages to get out, as she slumps down in a threadbare chair. "Anacostia noticed a couple of them following us. They put up a fight."

They'd been sent out on a small reconnaissance mission; there was a suspected Camarilla armory near New Haven. Raelle went with her Unit and Anacostia, while her mom and Scylla waited at a Spree safe house twenty minutes north.

It's where Raelle and the others were heading back when they were forced to engage a handful of Camarilla members in combat. 

These ones weren't as prepared as the group in the Altai Mountains had been. Abigail took most of them down herself with one well-aimed windstrike, her newly-refined Blaster abilities on full display — 

"See, shitbird, this is why you're supposed to take War College _seriously_."

— but Raelle ended up in a scuffle with one of the Camarilla, who swiped at her leg with a hunting knife — slicing open a long, diagonal wound — before Raelle struck him down with her scourge. It wasn't a terrible injury; Raelle hadn't even noticed it at first. It wasn't until they were almost back to the safe house that the pain started to really set in.

Raelle winces, shifting in her seat and examining her leg. Her combat trousers are dark, saturated with blood. The skin around the wound is aflame and tender. 

Scylla rushes forward. "Raelle! You're hurt!"

Raelle pulls away, brushing Scylla's hands aside. "It's nothing," she mutters, even as a shock of pain shoots up her leg. She grits her teeth.

"Don't be so stubborn. Let me help."

Scylla's hands settle on her leg, and Raelle feels a rush of warmth, like being bathed in sunlight. It's a golden, dreamy kind of sensation.

But it's not like when she practiced Linking in the rec room during Basic, or Abigail's harried attempt in the Altai Mountains. She can feel Scylla on the edge of her mind, hovering with careful control.

"It's okay," Raelle murmurs.

She closes her eyes and lets Scylla in.

Images float the forefront of Raelle's mind.

Her and Scylla standing among the green of Beltane, their foreheads pressed together.

_I'm with you in this._

Scylla's mouth against her ear, affection bursting and blossoming, unbidden, in Raelle's heart.

Despair and anger and sadness, black as the night, at losing Scylla; realizing the truth.

_I still love her._

Lying in the dust and clutching Abigail's hand, chest sticky with blood, thinking only of Scylla. 

Other memories spring forth: Photia, the light off the lake like a halo around her head. Her fingers trailing along Raelle's spine. The deep tug of guilt. The knowing hurt in her eyes.

And then the brightest one of all: Scylla, staring at Raelle from across the street; the breathless seconds between them; love spilling out of Raelle like an overflowing fountain. 

(i _chose_ you.)

When Scylla removes her hands to sever the Link between them, it's not abrupt like Raelle's used to. It's more like a dream fading slow in the morning; for all Raelle knows, hours might have passed since they began.

Raelle opens her eyes, exhaling a slow, shallow breath, the pain in her leg all but dissipated. 

Scylla's voice comes out husky, barely above a whisper. "Raelle."

She's looking up at Raelle with those brilliant blue eyes.

And her mouth is so, so close. 

Raelle can't breathe. The air around them is electric-tense. She's acutely aware of the pulsing of blood in her ears, the beat of her heart. Scylla's hands on her leg, her slight grip. Her face, the little constellations of freckles. Scylla blinks, her mouth crooked up into a hint of a smile, her lips parted just a sliver. 

It's not the Linking this time — the warmth that washes over Raelle is entirely different. It's falling all over again. Everything else fades away. 

All she wants to do is kiss Scylla.

It's what she's wanted all along.

So she does.

*

Everything's different.

But Scylla's not. She's the same.

When Scylla leads Raelle to her bedroom with a heady kiss, she tastes the same as she always did. She moves the same, hips rolling up when Raelle straddles her and pins her hands above her head. She sighs the same, when Raelle undoes her jeans and thrusts her hand into Scylla's underwear, fingers searching and pressing.

It's just like their first time; the stuttered breaths, the surge of electric heat between them, tugging off their clothes with frantic urgency. 

When Raelle runs her tongue over the curve of Scylla's hip, around a nipple, then up and along the inside of a thigh, Scylla makes the same small mewling sounds Raelle remembers. Scylla's wet and eager; her fingers grip the back of Raelle's head encouragingly. She tastes the same _there_ , too, and Raelle realizes just how much she's missed this, the way Scylla digs her heels into Raelle's back and arches up into Raelle's mouth.

When Scylla finally comes, Raelle climbs back up and kisses her hard, grinding against Scylla's thigh, desperate for her own release — until Scylla's hand slips between their bodies and Raelle sees stars.

Scylla kisses her, again and again, like she's afraid this is the last chance she'll ever have.

"It's okay," Raelle murmurs against Scylla's lips. "It's okay. I'm not going anywhere."

Not now.

Not ever again.

They lie side by side in bed, facing each other. The moonlight slips through the cracks in the blinds; Scylla's bare skin glows in the pale light. 

She puts her hand to Raelle's face, cradling her cheek, and kisses her, tremendously gentle, as if she's afraid Raelle is going to break. Or maybe she's afraid that Raelle is just a dream, a phantom in the night. A ghost of what once was. 

Raelle's heart aches. 

"Come here," she whispers, her hand searching for Scylla's in the dark.

Their fingers lace neatly together. Raelle pulls Scylla close and puts her face against the slope of Scylla's neck, breathing in.

Scylla smells like springtime; grass and magnolias in the flush of full bloom. A hazy sort of nostalgia settles over Raelle; she remembers the two of them at Fort Salem, sitting under their tree, sharing a book. The heady scent of old paper, the slowly rising heat as the sun climbed higher in the sky. Scylla's shoulder, pressed against hers. The way her hair fell into her eyes. Her mouth against Raelle's, laughing into a kiss, sweet as honey.

When they make love again, it's slower.

Raelle stretches out on the bed while Scylla's fingers and tongue skim over every inch of bare skin she can find, until they're both shaking and unable to take it anymore. Raelle threads her fingers through Scylla's hair, hips jutting up to meet Scylla's mouth. 

It only takes a few minutes for Raelle to come, her grip knuckle-white on the pillow behind her head. She pulls Scylla up by the shoulders and kisses her breathlessly. Scylla presses light kisses along her neck and shoulders until she comes down, nuzzling against her.

"I've been wondering," Raelle drawls, several long moments later, after her breathing has settled and Scylla's rolled over onto her back. "What were you thinking?"

Scylla looks over, confused; Raelle moves forward, her hand sliding between Scylla's thighs, stroking quickly and purposefully. 

"The first time you kissed me," she whispers in Scylla's ear, nipping at it with her teeth. "What were you thinking?"

Scylla's nails dig into Raelle's shoulder. "That you were beautiful," she pants, moving against Raelle's hand. "And sad. And I was thinking how easy it would be to win you over. But — "

"But?" 

"But then you made me forget everything else." Scylla's words come sweet and stuttered, her face stained with a delicate, rosy blush. "And then all I could think about was how I never wanted you to stop kissing me."

They move together on the bed in a tangle of limbs, the room silent save for their labored breathing and Scylla's quiet, encouraging moans. She comes with a shudder, her leg hooked over Raelle's hip, heel digging into the back of Raelle's calf. Raelle bows her head and kisses the shiny mark below Scylla's breast.

"Goddess," Scylla manages, gripping Raelle's arm. "Raelle — kiss me," she pleads.

Raelle withdraws her hand silently, licking her fingers clean before shifting up and letting Scylla pepper her face with desperate kisses. One of Scylla's hands settles on the small of Raelle's back, pulling their bodies closer together.

Raelle sighs, sleepy and sated, and kisses her properly.

When Scylla opens her mouth to speak again, Raelle shushes her.

"It's okay," she says gently, rolling over onto her side and tugging Scylla along with her. "I know."

Scylla loves her. It's the one truth Raelle's always known.

*

Raelle wakes first, blinking at the bright sunlight that floods the room.

She's not used to sleeping in; the clock on the bedside table tells her it's half past eight. She yawns and stretches, rolling over to face Scylla, who's predictably stolen most of the comforter and is curled up around it.

The sight fills Raelle with warm nostalgia, remembering the twin bed in Medea, the halcyon days of waking up in Scylla's sun-drenched room. 

Those days are long gone; there's no getting them back.

But it's not the end — it never has been. 

She leans forward and gingerly brushes the hair from Scylla's eyes. 

Scylla stirs. "You're here," she mumbles, reaching blindly for Raelle's hand. 

Raelle laces their fingers together. "Told you I wasn't going anywhere." She kisses Scylla's knuckles. "Sorry. I didn't mean to wake you."

Scylla offers her a sleepy smile. "I don't mind." 

She untangles herself from the comforter, shifting closer and leaning in for a kiss.

Raelle sighs, draping an arm around Scylla's waist. Scylla cups Raelle's face with her hand, thumb running back and forth over the thin, jagged scar there.

Downstairs, Raelle can hear people moving around the safe house. Faint snatches of conversation. She pictures her mom in the kitchen, talking to Anacostia. Maybe making Abigail and Tally breakfast, like she used to do for Raelle on the rare weekends when she was home on furlough. 

In a few minutes they'll have to get out of bed. There's so much to do. Fort Salem and Alder await, ready to finalize truce negotiations between the Spree and the military. Scylla's bags sit by the door, packed for the trip back to base. 

But for this moment, Raelle's content to linger in the hazy glow of morning, sleepy from Scylla's gentle caress and the comfort of the bed, warmed by the sun. She turns her head to kiss Scylla's palm.

When they kiss properly, Scylla presses her hand flat to Raelle's chest, right against the scar there. It's not quite Linking, but it feels close; a shimmering whisper of understanding.

"What are you thinking about?" Scylla asks.

"That we should run away together."

Scylla's smile is brighter than the sun. "Leave our medals hanging on the door?"

"Mmhmm." Raelle brings her hand up to stroke the back of Scylla's head. She brushes their noses together before leaning in for a long, chaste kiss. She grins against Scylla's mouth. "We'll tell the birds to sing our goodbyes."

"I love you," Scylla says, her voice like spun sugar, the blue of her eyes as boundless as the ocean.

(they still have a few minutes.)

(everything will be okay.)

**Author's Note:**

> after writing a season two speculation fic from scylla's pov, i wanted to tackle one from raelle's pov and take them on a different path to reunion. deepest thanks to [jacinto](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jacinto) and [here4rizzles](http://www.tumblr.com/here4rizzles) for shaping this into something worth posting.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [the moths don't die for nothing](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26681005) by [majesdane](https://archiveofourown.org/users/majesdane/pseuds/majesdane)




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